


Small Kindnesses

by Hinterlands, lecriteuse, skybone



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Kindness, Round Robin
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-06
Updated: 2016-05-11
Packaged: 2018-05-24 23:59:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6171889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hinterlands/pseuds/Hinterlands, https://archiveofourown.org/users/lecriteuse/pseuds/lecriteuse, https://archiveofourown.org/users/skybone/pseuds/skybone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s the small kindnesses that we do for each other that strengthen bonds. Right? Right.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Josephine and Cassandra

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (This chapter written by [skybone](http://archiveofourown.org/users/skybone/).)

It was the Inquisitor's fault, really. She had the _oddest_ ideas, sometimes. Cassandra occasionally wondered what exactly had happened in her past to make her think the way she did. 

It was not that thinking differently was _bad_ , exactly. It was just... different. 

She had not been aware of the Inquisitor’s latest idea until, much to her surprise, Josephine appeared in her loft early one evening. Josephine did not ordinarily simply drop in to one’s private quarters, however lacking in privacy they actually were. Cassandra had been reading at her table; the Ambassador sat in the chair opposite her and put a small pouch on the rough surface. "Give me your hand," she said.

Startled, the Seeker did so. Josephine held her hand gently and stared at it. So did a baffled Cassandra. It seemed to her like a perfectly normal hand, if currently a bit grubby. Then Josephine tsk'd, let go, and opened the pouch. 

Maker. It contained the small tools required for a manicure.

"Your nails are in _dreadful_  shape," said Josephine, frowning. "I suppose it is all the fighting. Though I must say, Blackwall seems to keep his in considerably better condition than you do."

Cassandra opened her mouth to ask how Josephine had come to be aware of the state of Blackwall's nails and then thought better of it.

Having put her tools in order, Josephine put out an imperious hand. Cassandra, feeling far more guilty over two broken nails and the dirt under them than she had when her uncle was trying to force her to become a fine lady, somewhat nervously extended her own, and the Ambassador set to work. 

Well... this was not  _terrible_. She had not appreciated such attentions when she was younger, but this seemed different, a simple kindness without the weight of expectation, and she began to relax. But...

"Josephine," said Cassandra eventually, uncertainly, not wanting to offend the Ambassador but both fascinated and puzzled beyond bearing, "why are you doing this?

"It is the Inquisitor's idea," said the Ambassador placidly, continuing her work, "and I think it is a very good one. She said that here in Skyhold we have so many people, from so many places, that it is difficult for us to learn to work together. She suggested that one way to strengthen bonds is to do small kindnesses for each other. And I thought that you would enjoy this."

"Oh," said Cassandra. "I—I do, very much. Thank you. But... is this an order?" 

"Not at all," said Josephine, smiling. "It was only a suggestion. A reminder to be pleasant and kind to others."

"Oh," said Cassandra, and sighed. A _suggestion_ , indeed. She wondered who she would need to be kind to, and if it was really, truly necessary. 


	2. Cassandra and Sera

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter written by [lecriteuse](http://archiveofourown.org/users/lecriteuse/pseuds/lecriteuse). Thanks for letting me play along!

When Sera found a neat stack of folded woollen blankets outside her door one afternoon, she didn’t think much of it, just stepped over them on her way in. Whoever’d left them there would probably come fetch them. When she emerged later, thinking to find a drink and some food and maybe a bit of a natter, the blankets were still there. Which was odd. People didn’t just leave things on the floor, in the upstairs of the tavern. And why blankets? They were nowhere near the laundry, or anywhere linens would be stored.

Well, whatever.

Sera got her drink and her food. She sat with this group of people and that group of people, just chatting mostly, maybe flirting if someone caught her eye. Later on, after she’d put herself on the outside of more than a few flagons, she decided she’d sleep in her room (instead of wherever in the tavern she happened to stop to rest her eyes for a bit). She’d forgotten about the blankets, though, and tripped over the stack in the dim light. She barely caught herself on the wall, cursing.

Suddenly, strong arms were hauling her upright. “Sera? Are you all right?”

It was the Seeker, because of course it bloody was. Sera got her feet under her and shrugged off Cassandra’s hands. “I’d be a lot better if people didn’t leave frigging piles of blankets right where I need to be walking,” she grumbled, giving the fallen stack a weak kick. “What?” she demanded, seeing Cassandra give her some sort of look.

“Sera… I left those blankets there. For you.”

Sera stared. What was the Seeker on about?

“The Inquisitor has suggested that we all try to… to do small kindnesses for one another. And it has gotten colder out, and your room is draughty. I thought perhaps you would appreciate having some extra blankets.” Cassandra stooped and gathered up the blankets. “I suppose the Inquisitor’s idea is a noble one, but my efforts are clearly doing more harm than good, so — ”

“Hold on!” Sera said, grabbing the blankets from Cassandra. “I didn’t say you were ‘doing harm’, now did I?” She brought the load of blankets into her room, dumping them on the padded window-seat. “‘Course, I can sleep in any kind of cold,” she said, arranging the blankets into a sort of nest. “I don’t _need_ these. But since they’re already here….” She looked up. Cassandra was standing in the door, still giving Sera some sort of look. “What?”

Cassandra actually smiled. It was kind of creepy. But all she said was, “You are welcome, Sera,” and turned to leave.

“That was weird,” Sera muttered to herself, burrowing into the blankets. They really were nice and warm. Weird, she thought, but good. Yeah. Real good.


	3. Sera and Bull (and Dorian)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is written by pericat, who is my beta-reader and gives me all kinds of wonderful ideas, so I'm delighted she agreed to play with us. But she does not have an AO3 account, and that is why I am posting this.

"So," Sera said, "this 'kindness' thing."

Cassandra looked up from her book, frowning. "Yes? It means to treat someone--"

"I know what it means! *ugh*, I'm not stupid!" Sera flung herself into a chair, helping herself to the untouched mug at the Seeker's elbow. "What, exactly, is the Inquisitor on about with it?"

Cassandra carefully marked her place and tucked the book in her tunic. "I suppose she thinks it will make the atmosphere here more, well, harmonious. More pleasant." She moved the mug out of the elf's reach.

"What's wrong with the atmoswhatsit? We could have a pie fight, that would be pleasant. Or I know this bastard in Val Royeau, well, I know his cook, and with a bit of bear's grease, a wyvern's head and a couple of barrel staves we could have not just a bit of fun, but do some good." She reached across for the mug, but Cassandra got it first and drained it. "You, Seeker, are unkind."

"And you, rogue, can well afford your own ale. Go, shoo, I am reading. Go be kind to someone. It will be a new experience, one you may well enjoy."

*          *          *

"Varric, if you wanted to be kind to someone, what would you do?"

"For starters, Buttercup, I would maybe not fill his bedroll with frogs. Or put tacks on her chair right before a state dinner. Or give his horse a bucket of broccoli."

"I thought he'd be leading Vivienne that day."

"That wasn't how it worked out, was it? You know I still can't wear that coat."

"Yeah, well, the Inquisitor got you a better one."

"Is this going anywhere? Anywhere I want to be, I should add."

Sera rolled her eyes. "Probably not. Later!"

*          *          *

  
She found the Ambassador at her desk. "Josephine, if you--"

"Stop right there!" Josephine interrupted.

"What? It wasn't me!"

"It most certainly was! I am in receipt of a letter from Lady Thibault regarding her cousin."

"Oooo, Cousin Twee-balls."

"That is precisely the problem! These are very delicate negotiations! What possessed you to paint 'MY OTHER DAD IS A MABARI' on the back of his jacket?"

Sera shrugged. "Dunno, just came to me, I guess. One of the runners comes from his dad's place, yeah? His brother used to work in old guy's kennel. One day, dog turned mean, went for the old guy, and the brother tried to stop it, got bit, bad, for his trouble. So this lord blames the brother and kicks him, still bleeding, mind, to the gate. He had to crawl home. Took him hours. Died that week."

Josephine closed her eyes and took a deep breath. "Nevertheless, you simply cannot treat guests of the Inquisition in such a fashion." She opened her eyes and glared hard at Sera. "I would very much dislike having to bring this to the attention of the Inquisitor."

"All right, all right!"

"Was there something you needed?"

"No, just passing through."

*          *          *

Sera sat on the battlement overlooking the rough camp that had spread out in the valley below Skyhold. "Kindness," she muttered to herself, "Bollocks! What do these nobs know about it?" She worried at a loose stone. It abruptly came loose under her hand, and she felt another under her butt shift alarmingly. Just as she readied to roll backward, a hand caught the collar of her coat and pulled her to firm ground.

"What does who know about what?" the Iron Bull asked.

"Nothing. Just the Herald's got it up her butt about air and being nice or something." Sera replied, "I can't be..." she frowned as a thought struck her. "Bull?"

"Right here. The boss has air up her butt?"

"Huh? No! What?"

"Never mind," he said, grinning. "Watch where you sit, okay?" He sauntered off toward Cullen's office. Sera stared after him, then at the stones lying loose in the wall. The mason would be no help, she knew, but there was a pair of apprentices and a carpenter she thought she could talk into helping her.

*          *          *

Bull's first thought, when he opened the door to his room that night, was that it was considerably warmer than usual. And quieter. Then Dorian's voice came from the direction of the bed. "Shut the door, you great oaf! You're letting out all the heat!"

Bull relaxed and closed the door behind him; if Dorian was here there was little danger of assassins. Maybe undead, but he thought he could take any Dorian raised. He looked up. There were no stars. This was different.

"Kadan," he said after a moment. "you shouldn't have." He felt his way over to the bed and sat.

"Shouldn't have what? I like the new ceiling, by the way. Gives the place almost the air of a hovel. Quite an improvement, really."

"You didn't fix the roof?"

"Me? The very idea!" Dorian sat up and ran his hands over Bull's back, feeling for the buckles of his harness. "Do these hands feel as though they'd ever touched a tool?"

"Mmm."

"Well, anyway, I didn't get all sweaty with hammers and trowels and things. Funny thing, though," he went on, as a thought struck him, "I did see Sera on my way here, with some of the servants, and they were just head to toe filthy. I didn't want to ask, in case I would need to deny knowing anything tomorrow, but you don't suppose they-- Should we move to my room?"

Bull shrugged. "Nah. I'm tired, you're here, and if it all falls down tonight, I'll be on top."

*          *          *

Sera curled up in her blanket nest. Her back had an itchy spot on one shoulder where dried paint resisted the half-hearted scrubbing she'd managed before going to bed. She wondered if they'd notice before morning, but "Nah, not likely, too dark. Might be days, if they don't look up much." But when they did, they'd get an eyefull, that they would. Worth it!


	4. Bull and Harding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is by [Hinterlands](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Hinterlands). Thanks for letting me go along!

The repairs to the roof held up, improvised as they seemed to be, though it was Dorian who first spotted the embellishment smeared across it, blinking sleepily past the broad ridge of Bull’s shoulder in the first watery light of morning. The sound he emitted was not something the likes of which Bull had ever heard (or, he thought, he was likely to hear again), some middle ground between a squawk of indignant surprise and a half-suppressed snort of laughter. Bull shifted onto his side, propped on an elbow, and an awed sort of silence stretched between them as they gazed heavenward before Dorian, the corner of his lip twitching, declared it _crude, but effective._

(Whether he was referring to the painting or Sera, Bull didn’t know.)

* * *

 

_The Herald’s got it up her butt about air and being nice or something._ So the boss had put her up to it; no real surprise beyond the suddenness of it, given the Herald’s track record, and he teased out the whole of it between rounds of sparring with Cassandra in the sunlit training yard, finding her positioned as the second link of a half-forged chain; a small kindness for someone in need, to promote something beyond the simple, strained equilibrium they’d found with one another.

_Hmrh,_ he thought. _Shouldn’t be too hard._

* * *

 

It was midmorning the next day before he found his target; Scout Harding, sitting on a cold stone bench at the edge of the garden, expression caught somewhere between weariness and a kind of helpless despondency. Off-duty, for the moment, and likely several after it; two scouts had been slaughtered by a group of Freemen in the Emerald Graves, or so the report circulating around the camps went, and while they weren’t the first or last casualties they’d sustained, they’d nonetheless hit her hard. Whether they were working _for_ or _beside_ was irrelevant; the scouts maintained a sort of muddled camaraderie in their huddle, and if they happened to defer to Harding as their _de facto_ leader, it didn’t seem to do their fellowship any harm.

(Bull’s heart echoed hers, distantly, quietly; Seheron still stuck under his skin like burrs, and the memory of the men around him pinned by the soft meat of their throats by Tal-Vashoth spears, strings of rubies spilling from the tented skin surrounding their points, is vivid in the space behind his eyes, and repeated tenfold, a hundredfold, his finger still on the pulse of a distant battlefield, a re-education and a lifetime ago.)

After that, it was hardly a moment’s thought wasted; he knew what to do.

* * *

 

_She likes flowers,_ Dalish had told him once, mistaking his intent, smothering her white knife of a grin against the rim of her tankard. It was true that he’d looked at Harding with something verging on appraisal more than once, seeing strong legs and small, even teeth and burnished copper hair, and wondering how far _down_ those freckles meandered, but he’d also seen the way she and the Herald had flirted on occasion, a flittering, stumble-tongued affair. That was nothing he’d wanted to stick his nose in, as flippant as it seemed, and Dorian would likely have a few choice words to rip his ears with the next time they laid together besides. But the assertion stuck, stayed lodged near the back of his skull. Just in case it was ever needed.

Harding’s bed in the barracks would be redolent of floral fragrance for days, owing to the crisp bouquet she found sitting in the midst of her blankets, still wet with dew, stems neatly snipped and all bound together with a length of satiny ribbon, crystal grace and hyacinth and splay-petaled orchids. She’d been stunned, Bull heard, asked just about everyone around her who’d left them there (a runner, some nondescript nervous-eyed boy who’d been and gone long before), but the next time he saw her in the courtyard, her shoulders sagged a little less, her neck a little straighter, and she smiled at the lush green grass ahead of her with every step.


	5. Harding and Leliana

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter by [skybone](http://archiveofourown.org/users/skybone/).

The spymaster was scary. Crazy scary. She had stopped dead, passing Harding in a corridor, and wheeled round, her eyes narrowing. Harding just about pissed herself. She might be only a jumped up shepherd, but she knew power when she saw it. Or heard about it. And she'd heard all kinds of things about Leliana, companion of the Hero of Fereldan and survivor of the Fifth Blight, the woman who'd helped kill an Archdemon and then had been the Divine's mysterious Left Hand. She had _reach_. Anything could happen if you caught the spymaster's eye, anything at all.

She backed up a step, trapped by Leliana's gaze. "Ma'am?" she said nervously.

"That scent," said the spymaster. "Andraste's Grace, yes?"

Harding gaped, then remembered the flowers. "Yes, ma'am. Someone left me flowers. I don't know who. But they were beautiful and they smell wonderful." She shut her mouth with a snap, catching herself; the spymaster would not care about all that. When the flowers began to fade she had carefully dried them and put the petals in a sachet under her pillow. She had never found out who left them, a minor irritation that itched a little because she was usually good at finding things out. 

The spymaster smiled and Maker, that was even scarier than her frown. "Lace Harding, is it not? You are lucky to receive such a gift. Very lucky." And then she turned and was gone.

Harding had an extra ale at the Herald's Rest that night; she thought she deserved it.

She'd heard about the Inquisitor's idea that people should do nice things for each other, and the fact that someone chose to do something for a lowly scout such as herself delighted her. It occurred to her that having benefited from such a gesture, she now owed a kindness. She didn't have the money or power that those who Sera called nobs did, but then it was supposed to be a _small_ kindness, not an expensive favour. She supposed she could manage something. But for whom?

 _It wouldn't hurt to get on the spymaster's good side_ , a tiny voice in her head said. _Especially now that she's noticed you. Before she decides to have you assassinated_.

Now _there_ was a lunatic idea. If she did something nice for Leliana—and what exactly would the spymaster consider nice?—she was quite certain that the Left Hand would have no difficulty whatsoever in finding out who was responsible. And why would she keep it a secret, anyway?

Apart from wanting to prevent Leliana from killing her if the gift offended.

And what could someone such as she possibly do for someone so elevated and frighteningly competent? The whole idea was ridiculous.

But occasionally she had seen the spymaster looking tired and worn and human, just like everyone else. She was hardworking and good at what she did, qualities Harding greatly admired. And when someone was that scary others might not dare to do something for her.

She had a pretty good relationship with Charter, Leliana's second, and carefully asked a few questions. Just a collegial discussion. And there were servants who could be chatted with. She learned that Leliana and her agents worked even stranger hours than the army scouts did, and in a tower that was always cold, open as it was to the skies—"Good for the birds, I suppose," said Charter gloomily, "though I don't know what that apostate down below thinks about all the shit."

The servants talked about the fashions of the Herald and Councillors. "Lady Pentaghast," said one disapprovingly, "wears armour even to _balls_."

"Perhaps Sister Nightingale could lend her something," said another. "She has a closet full of beautiful dresses, and oh, her shoes! I have never seen such a collection, so delicate, so fashionable!"

There was a pause as they all considered the image of the Seeker in a lacy, sweeping dress and delicately elaborate shoes.

"I am not certain," said a third drily, "that Lady Pentaghast could fit in the shoes of Sister Nightingale. Or the dresses, given her height and her shoulders."

"Well," said the second, "it is not as if anyone but the courtiers are likely to wear such things here in Skyhold, when it is so cold everywhere except the Great Hall." And the conversation turned to the more mundane topic of heating systems and their deficiencies.

It gave Harding a glimmer of an idea. It was not something beyond her abilities, though it would require a homely skill that she had not used since joining the Inquisition. It was not something that was too forward or presumptuous or foolish. At least she hoped it was not. It was simply a small kindness.

*           *           *

By the time Leliana returned from another late Council meeting most of her agents had gone to bed, and her workspace was unusually chilly and depressing. But there was still much to do before she could sleep.

There was something out of place on her table.

Boots.

She checked them over carefully; it would not do to accept such things at face value. They appeared to be simply what they looked like: loose calf-high soft-soled leather boots, lined with fennec fur, with the leather outers dyed and cut in clever patterns. She carried them cautiously down the stairs to Dorian and asked if there was any magic contaminating them; he said that there was not the slightest trace.

"How did you come by them?" he asked.

"They were left on my table."

He raised an eyebrow. "A _gift_ for you?"

A gift? "Perhaps." The thought was strangely pleasing. "Is that so surprising?"

"A strange gift, for the Left Hand of the Divine," he said, looking down his nose. "They are so very declassé and unfashionable and... Fereldan."

Leliana glared at him. She was, after all, Fereldan in origin, if not in upbringing. "I am not planning to wear them to a ball at Halamshiral," she said. "They are a type of high slippers that one wears at home. They are made to be _warm_."

Dorian looked at them with more respect. "Then if you find out who made them, please let me know. I would happily transgress against the rigours of fashion if it kept me comfortable in these damned drafty halls."

Dorian was right, of course; they were not at all _en vogue_ , and would only draw contempt from the nobles. But they had been made with care—the patterns incorporated a Fereldan luck symbol—and they were attractive for what they were. More importantly, she could not remember the last time her toes had been so warm when she sat up late working.

The Inquisitor had been encouraging people to do each other small kindnesses; it had been mentioned in Council meetings. Someone had done her a kindness. She would find out who, of course. They had given her something specific to her personal predelictions, which meant that they knew something about her, or had found out something, and if it was the latter she wanted to know who, and how. Someone who could elicit such information, if trustworthy, might have other useful skills.

But in the meantime, she would simply enjoy the boots, and appreciate their practicality and the sentiment the symbols communicated; in times like these, everyone needed all the luck they could get.

It was not just her feet. She felt warmer all over, and smiled to herself, a small, sweet, genuine smile, because of it.


	6. Leliana and Varric

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter by [lecriteuse](http://lecriteuse.tumblr.com/).

It wasn’t that Varric _disliked_ Skyhold, precisely, or that he resented being part of the Inquisition. In fact, he actually believed in what the Inquisition was doing. Certainly he appreciated that he was able, with the Inquisition, to do something — _anything_ — to begin to make up for the past.

But… although he liked most of his Inquisition acquaintances well enough, he wasn’t exactly bosom pals with any of them. Maybe it was leftover resentment from the… _abrupt_ and less-than-voluntary manner in which he’d joined the organization. Maybe it was because most of the world seemed to be sliding into chaos even faster than usual, and cultivating close friendships was a risky gamble.

It didn’t really matter much _why_. And besides, Varric hadn’t often had _friends_ for most of his adult life. Family, yes, though that had always been complicated, and since Bartrand had… yeah, family was _fucking_ complicated. He’d had acquaintances, colleagues, companions. But until Hawke had drawn together their merry band of misfits in Kirkwall, Varric hadn’t really had what he would have considered a group of friends: close-knit, in each other’s personal business out of affection rather than antagonism, helping one another with no thought to personal profit.

It had happened so slowly and naturally that Varric hadn’t entirely noticed until he was already deep in it, along with everyone else. It had been nice, having that, for a while.

Here, at Skyhold, he missed them all. Some more than others, yeah, admittedly. But now that they had all scattered to the corners of the world, Varric found himself unexpectedly missing them all, missing that kind of close companionship. It _ached_. This ache wasn’t the untouchable agony of _regret_ , not quite the sharp sting of _loss_ , it wasn’t the oppressive fog of _loneliness_. It was its own thing, the ache of missing them.

He supposed it was never going to last forever, their little gang, living in Kirkwall, working together. Now, whenever the ache got bad enough to be distracting, at least he could write to some of them. Not all, of course. But it was nice to pretend, for a little while, that he was actually talking to them.

Given the vagaries of the post services he used, Varric knew his letters often arrived late, or possibly not at all. His friends didn’t all bother to write back, and their few letters were even more subject to delays or disappearances. He sometimes considered using the pricy messengers he used to manage his business affairs; but he couldn’t quite bring himself to spend that kind of coin to deliver what amounted to frivolous personal anecdotes.

Still, despite the state of the world, small miracles could sometimes happen: suddenly, all of Varric’s personal letters were getting to their intended recipients quickly, and, amazingly, their responses were reaching him consistently as well. It took him a couple of weeks, and the unusual accumulation of a small pile of recent personal correspondence, to really notice. He’d had three letters from Merrill in the last fortnight, two each from Hawke and Sebastian, one each from Aveline and Fenris (just a few terse lines from him, of course, but damned if they didn’t take Varric right back to their time together), and even one from “Admiral” Isabela (apparently sent during a brief stop at a port of call in Antiva City).

Corresponding with his old friends reminded Varric acutely of how much he missed their company, their camaraderie. Their letters were a genuine delight to read, and writing for pleasure was a welcome change from writing under the pressure of his publisher, and yet… the ache got _worse_.

For a little while, he just put his head down and got things done. He put most of a new book down on paper, was the most efficient business manager he’d ever been in his life, wrote prolifically to his friends. He felt _productive_ , but he didn’t feel _good_.

Early one evening, Varric was in his usual spot, trying to wrap up the plot of the book he’d been working on. Only he couldn’t focus. He’d had a sleepless night, and he felt exhausted; the ache was firmly in situ in his ribcage, and he knew it would be useless to go to bed, especially this early.

His eyes wandered. An object on the table caught his gaze, and unthinking, he reached for it. It was a small leather case; inside was a pack of playing cards.

It wasn’t unusual for people to accidentally leave things on this table, what Varric considered _his_ table (seeing as he was generally the only person using it at any given moment). Plenty of people passing through the throne room would stop to talk to one another, or to Varric, and sometimes they set down odds and ends, then forgot to take them up again when they walked off.

Idly, Varric shuffled the deck. The cards were worn just enough to riffle easily. No marked cards, no missing cards. Nice. The actions of shuffling — cutting, washing, riffling — made the ache tug inside his chest, as he remembered nights with his friends at the Hanged Man, dealing out the cards for a game of Wicked Grace.

He had set aside his writing materials without realizing it. As he moved the cards restlessly in his hands, Varric toyed with the idea of heading to Skyhold’s tavern. There’d probably be plenty of people there that he knew well enough to badger into playing a few hands of Wicked Grace. He could teach them the Kirkwall Rules for the game, too, that was always good for a laugh….

He rose from his seat and carefully put away his papers. It was worth a shot, he figured. Better than re-writing the same damned line of writing a thousand times, or staring at the ceiling above his bed. And if the game fell through, well, he could always just come back here and try to get something done. But it might be nice to have some company, he thought as he made his way to the tavern, and he wouldn’t mind putting himself outside of a pint or two of ale….

***

A week later, Leliana was drifting through the Herald’s Rest, making a game of trying to stay unnoticed. She didn’t do this often, not these days. But it was a useful exercise, partly because it kept her stealth skills sharp, partly because it offered her a perspective on the denizens of the Inquisition that was not on display at other times. It was evening, and the tavern was not full — this made it more challenging than a packed crowd, but that just made it more interesting — and most tables had groups of people, with more milling about.

She noted with gratification that a number of the inner circle who were not currently on mission with the Inquisitor were at a table playing Wicked Grace. During the scant minutes she allowed herself to observe them, Leliana witnessed laughter, conspiratorial whispers, grandiloquent storytelling, convivial repartee.

Varric was dealing. Though he did not speak much while Leliana was watching, she noted the relaxed set of his shoulders, how his face had lost the stretched, gaunt look of the last few weeks, that he smiled easily and sincerely at his companions.

She allowed herself a small, satisfied smile as she withdrew, then made her way back through the keep to the rookery. It had been very aggravating that her attempt at a kind gesture had, initially, gone so poorly. Assigning her birds and messengers to intercept and carry Varric’s personal correspondence to and from his friends had meant a minor sacrifice of efficiency, but Leliana had been sure that it would produce excellent results; a small kindness, as the Inquisitor had wanted, that would improve goodwill and morale. She had thought Varric would be pleased. After all, many of his old friends were alive and well, if far away. He was lucky, in that respect.

It had not made him happy, which had caught her off-guard. But, after a small amount of reflection, she had been able to come up with a way to take the emotional energy that arose from Varric’s writing to his friends, and spin it into something productive and affirming. A bit of redirection, and it was done. And now, even more people had benefitted from Leliana’s attempt. Yes. It was well.

She had originally thought the idea of contrived kindnesses was absurd — a pointless, but harmless, distraction. Perhaps she had been overly cynical. She had once believed that harmony could be spread as easily as malcontent, if one chose to be positive. Perhaps some part of her believed that still, she thought, loping up the stairs of the keep, the soles of her new boots silent on the flagstones, rising to the shadows of her rookery.


	7. Perisu and the Shee-Banshee of the NorthNorthEast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written by pericat, posted by skybone. ...Impossible to describe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (NB: Pericat would like to offer her sincerest apologies to all who happen on this story, and hopes they will someday find it in their hearts to forgive her.)

Perisu licked her finger and held it up to test the wind. Just right. Shame she was out of arrows, but "Never say it's over till it's over, that's what Mama Trevelyan always says!" she whispered, lightly unstringing her greatbow and wrapping the line around her right hand. She closed her eyes and mimed pulling as if the bow were still strung, then loosed with a shout.

The Arrow of Fyre sprang away and straight into the heart of the Great Bear, which shivered all over and fell dead where it stood. "Nice shot," commented Dorian. "The scouts will have to go back to complaining of the weather, now that you've filled their stewpots. I suppose that's more of that fancy Archer magic?"

"Yeah, but honestly I'm not the one to ask about the theory. I just, well, it just comes." Perisu shrugged, blushing, and set to dressing her kill. Dorian shook his head. A branch of magic even Tevinter had no insight into, and this humble peasant girl ambles into Skyhold one day already a fearsome practitioner. "Let the scouts do that, Perisu. We need to get back to camp before the runner leaves for Skyhold."

"All right, let me just flag it for them." Perisu eyed the tall tree nearest the carcass. "Need a boost?" asked Dorian. "Naw, I got this." With that she spat on her hands and knees, then leapt, not for the closest branch as Dorian would have expected, but for the side where the bark was roughest. She clung a moment improbably, then scaled up faster than any squirrel and was quickly lost from sight in the upper leaves. Dorian waited, his attention drifting. "If only she were a he," he mused. "I was always a sucker for black flashing eyes and dark red and silver hair." If the Freeman squad sneaking around behind him hadn't yelled, he would have been taken completely by surprise. As it was, he was nearly skewered before Perisu half jumped, half fell from the tree and beat them off him with her unstrung bow.

"Is that a club in your hand, or am I just glad to see you?" he laughed shakily as she pulled him to his feet. She grinned and fisted his ribs. "All in one piece? Race you to yonder hill, we can see if the flag I tied is flying as it ought to be!" She took off at run and, not wanted to be left wholly behind, he picked up his pace.

*          *          *

Back in Skyhold, Master Harritt sidled up to Perisu as she was rubbing down her mount. "Here," he whispered confidentially, "the missus made you some cakes." He thrust a packet into her pocket. "She says the garden had never produced so many beans afore you talked to the plants. Dunno what you said to 'm, but hit's worked a treat."

"Gee, thanks! And thank your wife for me; she didn't have to do that. I just told them a poem I learnt from our old Dalish nurse; our garden always seemed happy when I did that back home, so I try to spread it around when I'm travelling. Makes me feel like I never left," she sighed, patting the giant chestnut brunette stallion affectionately. "This fellow's the last of them; I'm off to the Herald's Rest."

"Did you rub down all the horses, then? Again?" The horsemaster shook his head. "You'll leave me nothing to do but sit in the sun, girl!"

*          *          *

In the Herald's Rest, Sera and the Iron Bull frowned in unison. "That can't be right," Sera said. Bull nodded in agreement. "Show us again."

Perisu picked up the card deck and shuffled. "Twice," she said, "I've watched how she does it. Two shuffles," as she shuffled again, "and then three cuts." She cut the cards accordingly. "When I'm done dealing, now, Bull will have two pair, and you, Sera, a mixed hand. If you then discard three, and if I want your hand to beat Bull's, I—" she slowly slipped a card from the bottom of the deck and shifted it to the top. "—make sure this card is one of the ones you get next."

"How did you get Bull the two pair, though?" Sera demanded.

Perisu frowned. "Well, I know where they were, same as the Ambassador, before I cut them."

"I'll be damned," Bull grinned. "C'mon, Sera, time to win back our dignity!"

"You go for the dignity, big guy, I want to get my gold back. Thanks, Perisu!"

Perisu watched them out the door, then picked up her orange squash. It sure was thoughtful of the bartender to get some in for her. She was aware of someone standing behind her, but her sixth sense wasn't tingling so she only smiled on hearing Cole's voice.

"They're happy! They're really happy! You made them happy!"

*          *          *

Varric frowned. Nothing was going right today. Even Bianca was pouting, he could feel it. He resharpened his quill and pulled a fresh sheet of paper out. 'Ninniave raised her staff, tendrils of smoke curling about the curly ramhorns of her head-dress...'

"Hi, Varric!" Varric jumped, ink spattering across the page. "Oh, sorry! I'm so sorry, let me get you a blotter!" Perisu lifted some books from the table, looking quickly around. "No need!" said Varric, "I'm good! No harm done." He quickly set a plate on top of the sheet and smiled affably up at the perky young Archermage. "Take a load off, there, uh, you," he continued, nudging the other chair in her direction. She sat, still looking anxiously at him. "Are you sure—"

"It's fine," he said soothingly, "Anyway, I'm glad you stopped by, I've been meaning to talk to you. I hear you knew the Inquisitor from before, is that true? Did you two really grow up together?"

"Well, no, not together as such, but yeah, not far. She was gentry, of course, and ma and me're just plain folks. But Ostwick don't put themselves all la-de-da, so we was friendly when we were young, yeah." Perisu grinned. "You want to hear about the Inquisitor's cowtipping days, is that it?"

Varric smiled back, admiring the deep golden brown of Perisu's eyes and way her long blonde hair framed her delicate oval face, and found himself thinking, 'Shame she's a hu— wait, what?' He shook his head. Perisu touched his knee. "Varric? You okay? You looked a bit strange for a minute."

He shifted in his seat, his knee tingling. "I'm fine, fine. No, what I wanted to ask you is, did you really beat her in a Summerday Festival shoot?"

Perisu shrugged. "I guess. It wan't an official competition or anything, just us kids larking about on the field after the grownups were done. But yeah, I won." Her face shone a second with pride, recalling how her last arrow had spun true to the mark, as had the fifty before it. There had been some Orlesians watching, and one had promised her a place in the Empress' crack scouts, if she were willing to leave the Free Marches. But she couldn't leave her old mother, no ser! "It was just a game," she said softly, "but it was good times. Every day was, come to think of it. Still is." She smiled, and stood. "Nice chatting with you, Varric. Need to find my bed, though, mustn't keep the Commander waiting!"

"Say 'hi' to Curly for me. He still owes me a drink!"

'What that kid needs,' Varric mused, 'is an ode.' He was suddenly reminded of the Inquisitor's wish that they should look out for ways to do each other small kindnesses. Perisu's entire life seemed to be devoted to being kind to everyone around her, and he felt almost ashamed that it had taken him this long to notice. An ode would set that right; it was the least he could do, he thought. With a decided air, he shoved aside the sheets of his half-finished thriller and found a clean stack. He sat, refilled his quill, and paused. Something was still not quite right. Hm. "I can't use my ordinary ink for this!" he exclaimed after a moment. "I need something livelier, something that really... pops!"

*          *          *

"It's a demon."

Leliana looked up from the report she was annotating. Vivienne stood in the doorway, her aristocratic back unyieldingly stiff, looking down at Skyhold's courtyard. "What's a demon?"

"I should have known. There's no such thing as an 'archermage'. It's a demon. Come here, quickly!"

Leliana sighed, and walked over to the doorway, looking out where Vivienne pointed. "What do you have against her, anyway? She's a lovely woman, and very talented. I don't know where we'd be without her, and Cullen is positively smitten."

"It," Vivienne carefully enunciated, "Is. A. Demon. Watch!" The tiny figure she had spotted on the far battlement slapped a guard on the shoulder and turned away, leaping lightly from the wall to the yard below, narrowly missing the surgeon bending over a patient. Leliana gasped. "She'll be hurt, we must—"

Vivienne cut her off. "It is perfectly fine, see?" The figure indeed stood up, and strolled toward the stairs, waving at a cluster of mages as it went. "Only a demon could leap from that height unharmed."

"Or," said Leliana thoughtfully, "a very powerful mage. She is an Archermage, after all. If only I could learn her secret... well."

Vivienne made an expression of disgust worthy of a Pentaghast. "I see I have my work cut out for me." Leliana shook her head and went back to her desk. Vivienne continued staring down, her dark eyes cold and thoughtful.

*          *          *

Vivienne returned to her balcony with an armload of books. Dorian had been almost rude at first, but she had controlled her temper and he had in the end found several promising volumes. Just as she settled into the first, Fortescutum's _Exempla Magna Malignantium_ , a shadow fell over the page. Well, over the heading of one page. "Iron Lady!"

She kept her eyes on the page; the long-dead clerk had had a touch of palsy. "Varric, darling, you're in my light."

"So I am! I thought it was Special Light; the moment I stepped into it, I felt moved to curl up in a little ball, stretching my paws one after the other, and purr. I controlled myself, of course."

Vivienne hmphed. Giving in, she closed the book and looked up. "What do you want?"

"Ink."

"Ink? Have you not got ink, in gallon jugs yet?"

"Well, to be fair, I do. But it's all black ink. I need something a bit more colourful for this project. I might have to make it, but I thought I'd see if by any chance you...?"

"Josephine?"

"Out."

"Colour?"

"Purple. With gold flecks. It should glitter just slightly, to match her eyes."

Vivanne frowned. "Varric, what are you writing?"

"It's an ode. Or it will be."

"I see. What's this ode in celebration of?"

Varric's expression became dreamy as he answered, "The Good Works and Shining Heart of Perisu, the Archermage of Skyhold!"

The silence stretched. Vivienne shook her head at last, and pointed to a chest near the wall. "Third tray down. Take the bottle. You'll need to shake it fairly often." She opened her book, dismissing the dwarf and resuming her study. There was no time to lose.

*          *          *

It was close to three in the morning, and her last candle was guttering, but she had found what she sought. This would be tricky.

Vivienne poured a glass of wine and let the candle expire. She stood and stretched, then carried her wine onto her balcony, where she could see the clear cold night sky glittering with stars. She shivered. A voice rose faintly from the steps below her: "... fresh from her mother's farm, this unassuming maid all hearts did scorch... no, no good. All hearts did..." the voice faded. Vivienne finished her wine in one swallow and smashed the glass at the feet of the nearest Andraste.

"Wow, you making a toast? That startled me!" Vivienne quickly schooled her features to calm. 'Slow breaths,' she thought, 'but stay alert.' She turned and regarded Perisu. "Yes?"

"'Yes' you're toasting something or 'yes' you're... I dunno." The girl's smile faltered. "Are you okay, there, Vivienne? Is there anything I can do?"

Vivienne looked at her, taking in the innocent blue of her eyes, her perfect smile unsullied by guile or sorrow, and knew she was right. "Yes, my dear, there may be something after all. You know the Inquisitor has asked us all to, well, help each other out. 'Small kindnesses' is what I think she called it."

"Well, if that isn't just like her!" Perisu exclaimed. "She was always just the sweetest thing, you know, back home."

"Mmyes. I find myself in need of... a particular kindness." Vivienne stepped forward, marshalling her considerable control, and laid a light hand on Perisu's shoulder. "Though this may be too much for one young, what was it you call your vocation? Archermage? One young archermage."

"Don't you think that," Perisu expostulated, "I may be only a simple girl from the country, but I know my duty! You just tell me what you need," she finished, folding her arms and looking up at the older woman with determination flashing in her golden eyes.

"Very well, I think I shall have to trust you," Vivienne murmured. "You must know that some way east of here is the dwelling of fierce being known as the Shee-Banshee..." she went on, Perisu nodding as she followed Vivienne's tale.

"Okay," Perisu said at last, "I think I got the gist. Find the cave, north-northeast."

"Or hollow."

"Or hollow. Lair!"

"Yes, perhaps."

"Bring back its... tears?"

"That's right, dear."

"Right." Perisu turned to go, then added, "It's sure gonna be a new one on me!" She grinned.

Vivienne forced a small chuckle. "We can only hope, that is, I mean, do be careful."

"Never you worry, m'am, I'll be gone and back before you know it!" Perisu saluted her, laughed and jumped over the railing and was gone. Vivienne resisted the urge to peer after her, and instead sat back down, rubbing her temples. Things were moving more quickly than she'd planned, but the moment had been too good to leave. She only hoped that was her doing and hers alone.

*          *          *

Perisu tightened the straps of her saddlebag and prepared to mount her favourite horse, a beautiful and delicate blueberry gelding mare. Not that she ought to have favourites, not like any of this was hers, but, she thought, you can't help but feel what you feel. Another of Mama Trev's aphorisms, or was it...? Maybe she'd read it somewhere. It was getting hard to remember.

Cullen leaned on the stabledoor, chewing a fingernail, a worried frown creasing his otherwise perfect brow. "Are you sure you have to go?" he said, again.

Perisu led the mare out, and turned to him, laying a calming hand on his forearm. "I'm sorry, love, I'll be back before you know it."

He wrapped his arms around her suddenly, and held her to him tightly. It was like being in the arms of a gentle, yet fiercely proud and strong, lion. The collar of his armour only reinforced that, even if it did make her want to sneeze sometimes. "Cuen?"

"Hm?"

"Agnt breev."

He loosened his grip and looked down at her upturned face framed by reddish brown curls, her beautiful green-gold eyes, and the smattering of freckles dark against the flush of her cheeks. "I shall count the hours till you return," he said solemnly.

She patted his cheek and smiled. "I'll write you every day, but I may not have a chance to post regular, you know."

He nodded. "I'll write to you also, reams of letters, and they'll be right here for you when you return." His eyes glittered and threatened to overflow. "Oh, Cullen!" she exclaimed, and threw her arms around his neck, wrapping her legs about his waist. Their kiss lengthened, and she felt him stirring against her, and broke the kiss. "This will never do! Help me to mount, my darling. I must go!"

He lifted her easily and set her in the saddle. "Maker speed you!" he cried, and turned back into the stable, listening to hooves clopping away from him, and well wishes from the idlers in the courtyard. In the corner, Blackwall shook his head and bent over his carving, not wanting to intrude on such a private grief though his heart, too, ached at the thought of Skyhold _sans_ Perisu. After several minutes, Cullen could stand it no longer, and rushed out, taking the stairs to the battlements two at a time. His eyes found hers on the track leading out of the mountains, and she answered his wave with a blown kiss. It was enough. It would have to be.

The two guards patrolling that section looked on as Cullen walked slowly away, toward his office over the main gate. "Mate," one said, "we are for it." The other, an older woman on her third war, nodded. "You got that right."

"He'll be needing to forget, he will. He'll throw hisself in 'is work, mark my words. An' who's his work? Us, that's who."

"And for what? For a little bit of not much."

"Here now, don't you go talking like that about Miss Perisu! You need to watch your mouth," he continued, conversationally.

"Steady on, didn't mean nothing by it," the older woman protested. "I forgot; she drove that Gurn off you that time, didn't she?"

"And mended me boots, and showed me how to hold my shield proper. And helped me write home to me mum."

His companion nodded. "That's right, can't say fairer than that."

*          *          *

Perisu rode through the refugee camp surrounding the lake below Skyhold, nodding and smiling absently. The refugee families waved, some pointing at the splendid greatbow in its case attached to her saddle, and the refugee children ran alongside, cheering her on. One of the littler ones tripped and fell in front of her horse, who stopped abruptly and snorted. Perisu swung a leg over the mare's neck and slid to the ground, then cradled the weeping child in her lap. "There, honey, don't you cry! Please don't cry," she murmured, rocking the girl back and forth. She felt a bit strange, suddenly, and rocked harder. The child's attention was caught by the beads woven into Perisu's blonde and silver braids and she forgot to cry. "Pretty!" she exclaimed, reaching.

"Oh, now, no you don't," Perisu laughed, holding her head back out of reach. "No pulling my hair! What's your name, then?"

The other children had crowded around, and one of them spoke up, "That's Alon, m'am. She's my sister. She's not much more'n two, I guess."

"Well, she's just as cute as can be, aren't you, Alon?" She looked back up. "Is your mother around here, or your father?"

"We ain't got none no more. But our auntie's over there." He pointed. "I'll take her, if you like."

Perisu stood, holding Alon's little hand in her own warm brown one. "No, I'll see you both home." She winked at the young lad, who blushed. "It's just this way," he mumbled, and led her down the path to a small tent much like the others.

"Auntie?" he called, sticking his head in the opening. Alon pulled her hand from Perisu's and ran forward into the tent. "What's all this noise you're making, boy?" The woman stooped her way out into the sunshine and blinked. "You're... from Skyhold, ain't you?" The mare snorted.

Perisu smiled. "Yes m'am, I was just getting acquainted with your fine children. They must be a handful!" The woman nodded uncertainly. "I hope they haven't been troubling you, your, uh, your Worship."

"Oh, gosh no, no trouble! But I'm not anyone's Worship, that's the Inquisitor." Perisu laughed. "I'm just Perisu, running errands for my betters. So I had better get going. Maker bless you!" With that she vaulted onto her stallion, wheeled it around and trotted back up the path to the road.

Several folks crowded around Auntie and the two children. "That was the Archermage, I seen her last week when I brung up the delivery for that trader," said one. "And she blessed you!" said another. "You been blessed by the Archermage of Ostwick, you have." The last speaker removed his cap.

"Auntie, what's an 'Archermage'?"

*          *          *

Outside the camp, Perisu found herself alone for the first time in many weeks. "Since I come to Skyhold, "she mused aloud, "I ain't gone more'n half a day without someone around. Fancy that!" The gelding snorted. "I'm gonna have to change your name, you keep that up. Gonna name you 'Cassandra', how's that sound?" The mare snorted again, and Perisu laughed till her sides ached.

They continued down, and before long were below the treeline. The land continued quiet, but for occasional birdsong, or fox rustles. The area around Skyhold was well patrolled, and by now even these outlying areas were known to be unhealthy for the lawless. Rumour had it that the Inquisitor once tossed a highwayman into a Rift. It was a rumour, among others, Leliana had thought useful to encourage.

Perisu pitched her camp that night in a glen that had hosted more than one aravel, from the look of it, which suited her just fine. "We might even see a halla, how'd you like that, Cass?" she said as she checked the gelding's hooves for frogs. "You know, you keep snorting like that, you'll hurt something inside. Or maybe I will, from laughing at your snorting!"

She left the gelding mare to graze in peace, and after setting up her own special silk tent (it shimmered so in the moonlight, it made her want to sing some nights), that she never got to use when travelling with Inquisition companions, and began putting together the best camp supper anyone could wish: mac and cheese! Perisu would have mac and cheese every night on the road, if she could swing it. "Archermagery has its compensations, that's for sure! And one of them," she lectured the air, "is a bigger-in-than-out Chilled Pouch for keeping Yce Arrows icy cold and your dairy fresh."

It took more time than usual to make the little hollow cylindrical dumplings, since she had apparently left her dumpling knife behind, and thus was full dark before she finally could sit down with a steaming bowl of perfect mac and cheese. She had just had a mouthful when her sixth sense tingled a warning. "Who's there?" she called softly, swallowing. "Come to the fire and bring a bowl if you have one."

" _Andaran atish’an_ , stranger."

"And to you," Perisu replied, beckoning the Dalish elf to come sit with her. " _Andaran atish’an_ , as my old nurse used to say."

"We do not see your kind often," the elf said, sitting. "I know little Common, but I know you are not Dalish, but not not-Dalish."

Perisu dug a second bowl and spoon from her pack and passed it to her guest. "Help yourself to the pot, there, if you're hungry."

"This," the elf said wonderingly, "This good! This very good! You make this? You are a Keeper?"

"Archermage. It's like a Keeper, though, I guess. Well, not very, but never mind!" Perisu grinned.

"You are not alone, with such a fine tent? Where your friends?"

"I'm on quest, so it's just me and Cass here," Perisu jerked her thumb back toward the horse, which snorted on cue. "She's a one-note pony, but she hits it loud and often! How about you? Where's your people?"

"A day? A part of a day to the... that way," he replied, pointing south. "I am the one in the lead, I follow the halla's track and mark the road for the Keeper to see and show to the aravels."

"Ah. I wish I could stay and meet them, but my road is... that way," Perisu said, pointing east. The elf sucked in his breath. "There is a danger that way," he said carefully. "You maybe should wait clan here."

"Danger?" Perisu frowned, then shrugged. "Well, it would hardly be a proper quest if it were all smooth sailing."

"I must speak, _da'len_ ," he said, putting down the bowl and fixing her with his ancient eyes. "This is not small danger. This is a big trouble you go to. It is a many years of sorrow place, a _banal'ras abelas_."

Perisu blinked. "Well. Thank you for telling me. _Ma serannas_ , as my nurse used to say. I see I will have to be on guard against, um, abelassy things."

The elf rose. " _Ma serannas_ for the meal, and for the company." He bowed. "A good coming home to you, friend of the Dalish. _Dareth shiral_!" He turned swiftly and soundlessly, and was gone.

Perisu shrugged, and gathered the dishes for washing up. Two Arrows of Boyling Water plus one Yce Arrow later, all was clean and all teeth brushed that were going to be brushed that night. Cassandra snored softly as Perisu hummed into her blue silk footie pajamas and drank her tea. She kept hearing the elf say 'danger' and 'abelas'. The latter wasn't one of the words her nurse had taught her; she wondered what it meant?

*          *          *

Later the following day, hours after Perisu had resumed her hero's journey, the Dalish clan halted their aravels in that same glen, as they had been accustomed to doing for time out of mind. The Keeper studied the runes left by her scout, and frowned over his account of meeting an Archermage who seemed so strangely familiar, a friend of the Dalish, he thought. She quietly showed the note to their Hahren, who exclaimed, "That must refer to Perisu, the Archermage of Skyhold! She has been the lynchpin of their Inquisition, or so I have heard," pointing to the wheels of the aravels which were of course held on by lynchpins and so totally not anachronistic in any way. "I thought those were cotter pins," mused the Keeper, "but let us not be distracted. Perisu may need our help, unlikely as it seems, for if she insists on going alone to the _banal'ras abelas_ , she may find even Archermagery unequal to the task."

The Hahren nodded decisively. "We must speak with the halla, though they may already know. We will not let Perisu down!"

*          *          *

"It's a long waaay, to Wycombe Vil-lage, it's a long waaaay from hoooome!" Perisu sang, as Cass negotiated the tricky path down the cliffside. "Ooo," she broke off, "mind where you put your feet, girl! We might be better off rappelling down, maybe? No? Suit yourself, then. It's a long, long way to Wycombe Vill--"

Just then the narrow track gave way under them and they began sliding straight down! Perisu gripped the saddle hard with her knees as Cass frantically scrabbled to slow their descent. It was enough to give Perisu time to pull her greatbow from its case, and with a desperate plea to the heavens she shot an Arrow of Grapplyng into the trees above. It slipped at first, but at the last moment held firm, and she quickly tied off to her enormous saddlehorn, anchoring them both in place for the time being.

Cass looked back at Perisu, who soothed her. "Steady there, old fellow, I've got this. Now just you tuck up your legs there, and I'll pay out this line. We'll be on solid ground before you can snort."

The pony snorted. Perisu chuckled, "Well, okay, maybe not quite that soon, but very soon, I promise!" She tightened her kneehold, and with an effort of will, eased the thin, yet very strong, rope through her fingers. It took almost an hour of tense clenching and releasing, but Perisu had the gelding mare's comfort to think of and kept their rate of descent to a slow pace. Eventually the slope levelled, and Cass was able to stand on her own. She wuffled Perisu's hair gratefully as the tired, dishevelled Archermage stowed her greatbow in its case once more. With a quick pat of the pony's neck, Perisu remounted and they continued through the trees, which opened out into a small rocky dell. Mist rose from below and soon they were enveloped. Perisu dismounted, all her senses, including the sixth one she never disregarded, on alert. She led the horse slowly forward. The mist pressed more tightly around them, and the gloom deepened. Cassandra's head began to droop as he stumbled behind. Perisu realized they were actually in a cave when she slipped sideways and fell against a rough wall.

As she did so, her foot dislodged a rock that ticked and pinged ahead, sending echoes rebounding through the cavern, and a voice called out, "Who is there? Who comes to disturb the Ineluctable Peace of Lacrimeuse, Keeper of the Cautionary Tales of Forgotten Sorrows?"

The Shee-Banshee Lacrimeuse! The one Vivienne had said she must find! Perisu took a deep breath, staggered by a wave of feeling unfamiliar to her; she had heard others talk of sorrow, of despair, of caution, but till now they had been only words. Words that kept people from doing the things they needed to do. Perisu was an Archermage, and Archermages shot straight and true, and laughed, and sang, and got their chores done and didn't fuss or cry even if they accidently spilt the milk. She struggled for the first time in her short life to find the words to answer the question: who is there?

"It is just... me," she finally sobbed, "just Perisu. I am here." Her vision swam, churned, and she sank to her knees, her long green and pink hair trailing in the dust. Cass wuffled her neck, and she clung to the stallion's bridle. "But where are you?"

"I? In the Great Library if you insist on specifics, though that is a silly thing to attempt here."

"In a... library? But where?"

"In the Fade, of course!" The voice came from right beside her now, and no longer boomed, but whispered. "This is the Fade, nor am I ever out of it." She could no longer feel Cassandra's bridle. The voice whispered more softly, now right in her ear, "nor should you ever have left."

*          *          *

"Keeper! Keeper, come quickly, I've found something!" came a shout from the edge of the cliff, where something fairly large had recently broken the edge. The Keeper strode swiftly, and opened the pouch held up by the young hunter.

Inside was a glass vial, filled with a clear liquid, and a sealed note addressed:

 _Grand Enchanter Vivienne,_  
_also known as_  
_Madame de Fer, for Very Good Reason,_  
_Overly Gilded Chair,_  
_Balcony,_  
_Main Hall,_  
_Skyhold,_  
_Frostbacks,_  
_Orlais,_  
_Thedas_  
  
The Keeper called the Hahren over and together they searched carefully all around, but found nothing else. "Well," she said at length, "I suppose we had better see this delivered."

"Indeed. Must be that shemlen Inquisition business."

The Keeper looked around and shook her head. "It's odd, I don't quite remember why we came so far out of our way. We will need to pick up the pace, we are several days behind schedule."

*          *          *

_My dear Vivienne,_

_You tricked me. Well done, you! though I guess one good trick deserves another._

_However, you gave me a commission, and leaving chores undone is not in my nature. This little jar has what you wanted -- drink in good health, if you dare, or leave on a shelf to gather dust if you're faint-hearted._

_Maybe we'll meet again sometime. I'd write more, but I've got some filing to do. There are certainly a lot of stories here. I'll save out one or two for you._

_very KINDLY yours,_

_Perisu_  
_Bardclerkmage of the Great Library_

  
Vivienne laid the letter carefully in a brazier, and lit it with an absent thought. She regarded the vial thoughtfully for a while longer. Below, Varric hummed as he shuffled and dealt, shuffled and dealt, and from outside came the faint calls of Cullen as he briskly led the recruits through their exercises.

Drink it? Why would she drink it? She had no clue what was in it, or why it had been sent, or from whom.


End file.
